


Lay Not Your Lips To Ease His Roar

by CBlue



Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Forgiveness, Hurt/Comfort, I've been trying to finish this one for a week rip me, M/M, Makeup, Reconciliation, also mentioned - Freeform, since that was the prompt lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22912396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBlue/pseuds/CBlue
Summary: Jaskier’s eyes widened in realization. “You knew I’d be here,” he whispered, more to himself than to Geralt even though the witcher could most assuredly hear him. “What is it? You can’t possibly be asking me for a favor, could you, Geralt of Rivia?”Geralt gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply as he looked away. His eyes were like steel. “I need no favors, bard.”Crossing his arms, barring himself from the vulnerability that seeped out of him like the sunset, Jaskier felt his chin quiver. “Well, shall we add that to the ever-growing list of things youdon’t needthen, hmm?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (past)
Series: Geraskier Week (2020) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639330
Comments: 22
Kudos: 478





	Lay Not Your Lips To Ease His Roar

**Author's Note:**

> This should have been posted five days ago, but life man. :(( I'll be continuing my Geraskier Week (even if it takes me a month) because I'm actually motivated to find this. This one, in particular, is sort of all over the place. Oh, well. It was a lovely distraction from how busy I've been. The title comes from The Song Of The White Wolf from The Witcher OST.

Jaskier was not presumptuous enough to think that he would never see Geralt of Rivia again. He had integrated himself far too much into the witcher’s Destiny. Had forced himself into the narrative of the White Wolf so much that Jaskier’s entire identity had revolved around the bastard. Perhaps some said that Geralt of Rivia would not be without his Butcher title if it were not for Jaskier, but Jaskier would be without his title of master bard if it were not for Geralt.

Well, perhaps Jaskier would never reclaim himself. Perhaps he would always be haunted by his own legacy, his own heart in the palms of a witcher, but Jaskier would be damned before he let Valdo Marx give a slaughtered rendition of  _ Her Sweet Kiss _ at Oxenfurt’s Spring Awakening.

Inhaling sharply, Jaskier righted his hat. The feather was blown out of his face by the wind as Melitele herself kissed his lute strings with that same wind. Forcing a smile fit for court, Jaskier poured what little he had left of his heart into his audience of rich and poor alike.

_ The fairer sex they often call it _

_ But her love is as unfair as a crook _

The audience, of course, loved it. For all the dashing knights, fierce monsters, and true love that they love to hear, nothing sells quite as much as heartbreak. Sorrows and sweets, bitterness and hurt, they make history. Never respect. Never love,  _ real  _ love. For it is bards who sing of tales and history, and bards know of longing like no other.

Their cheers were empty. Their applause even more so. Jaskier laughed along with them. Returned their simple touches and playful slaps.  _ Heartache _ , they laughed.  _ A woman burned you and now you are the lady scorned. _

If only they truly knew. A lady was scorned indeed, but it was not Jaskier. Jaskier was merely the bard caught betwixt fire and sword in a battle of the heart. Foolishly he had chained himself to the witcher’s sword, and when the witcher was done swinging Jaskier had been left on the battlefield - a useless instrument.

_ It steals all my reason, commits every treason _

_ Of logic with naught but a look _

Empty dancing, empty feasting. Less a Spring Awakening and more of a Dull Aching. But how could songs be filled when the muse that had once filled them had banished Jaskier from his story? No more a part of the narrative by what Jaskier had thought was choice. No, instead Jaskier was balled into that Destiny that Geralt so hated and in turn hated by that White Wolf.

His lute, the very element of his being, had yet to produce a true sound. Something forced, something constantly tuned to make it sound  _ right _ when once it had sounded natural. Jaskier supposed it was an extension of himself. A farce until his music could be filled again. If ever. Taking a tankard of ale, Jaskier bowed his head. Grateful to a grateful audience. An audience made of people all over.

The city was painted with confectionary things and decorations. The evening began to be painted with a lovely sunset. The perfect picture for composing bards. It was a pity, truly, that Jaskier was no longer considered one of those bards. Composing and creating, writing and telling, no more for him. Not when the only stories that ever meant anything were falling to those who trailed after the monsters, the Nilfgaard, the dark and dastardly.

Foolish were they, for it was never the darkness of the ballad that mattered. Only the light. Not the monsters but the witchers that fought them. Even if said witchers thought nothing of it. Thought decades of one-sided  _ friendship _ when all Jaskier had ever done was -

_ A storm raging on the horizon _

_ Of longing and heartache and lust _

Well, none of it quite mattered now. Jaskier’s feelings for the witcher were moot when Geralt of Rivia was only longing for Yennefer of Vengerberg, powerful sorceress that had claimed his heart and he, in turn, claimed hers with an ill-timed wish. A wish that had in turn been the fault of Jaskier’s foolish pride.

He had thought of it, on many nights since the mountain. Because Geralt was right. If Jaskier’s pride and foolishness had not sought that djinn, then Geralt would never have made it to Rinde.

On other nights, Jaskier wondered if his part in the play had even mattered at all. If he had been but a tree in the ballad of Yennefer and Geralt’s love story. For if it was Destiny, it would have found a way. If not Rinde, then somewhere else. Anywhere else. Always following one another, bound by more than a wish.

Jaskier knew it did not take a wish to grasp someone’s Destiny to your own. For Geralt’s Child Surprise, whom Jaskier refused to believe lie in the ashes of Cintra with her grandmother, had surely found herself in Geralt’s company. Their Destiny’s surely would have been tied to one another, even if it was not Jaskier leading Geralt to Cintra, leading Geralt to claim the Law Surprise.

_ It’s always bad news _

_ She’s always lose, lose _

Finally breaking free of the masquerade, Jaskier found himself alone. Really, he had been alone for a long time. He had thought himself in company, a company that he treasured, but like a stray mutt who enjoys the table scraps, he himself had been unwelcome. And that was the irony, was it not? Finding someone that you wanted to spend forever with, actually wanted to tie yourself to, and they rebuked you in all aspects.

He was a free bird. Had meant to fly and fly far away from wherever his nest had been. But Geralt had been a traveling wolf, and Jaskier had thought they could travel together. As it was, Geralt’s shadow had been Jaskier’s home for half of his life. In Jaskier’s eyes, his life had not even truly begun until his nineteenth year in which he had met Geralt.

Sighing, Jaskier looked to his lukewarm ale. It was a poor companion, but a companion nonetheless. Its weight on his tongue made the ache of longing heavier and yet the memories duller. Always trade in such bargains. Jaskier had learned that quickly. Learned it far before Geralt of Rivia had broken his surprisingly fragile heart.

He fell in love easily, and he thought his heart a spirit meant for freedom. In fact, his heart had been made of glass. Refracted what light was shone on it, fragile to the touch, and shattering when it was dropped at the feet of a witcher on a mountain top. Jaskier shuttered, words ever-fresh despite the year that had laid between him and the old wound.

_ Tell me love, tell me love _

_ How is that just? _

A story that was not his, and yet he told it. That was Jaskier’s job. He had wanted adventure, never thought to be the star of an adventure, and that is what happened. The fault was, yet again, on him. Ever so foolish was he to  _ attach _ himself to his muse. Instead of dancing into love and dancing out of it, Jaskier had  _ fallen _ with no hope of clawing his way out.

Jaskier was helpless to it, really. Defenseless against a witcher who proclaimed to need no one, to long for no one. A cruel irony, a merciless mistress was Destiny. Jaskier did her bidding and had received little in return. One might argue that he had his reputation, the name he had garnered in his travels with Geralt, and yet what was a name in comparison to a feeling?

Well, even the feeling meant nothing. Meant nothing to anyone save for Jaskier. Save for the people who adored his songs even without truly understanding his limericks and rhymes. Yearning, friendship, longing, hardships meant nothing.

Chuckling cruelly to himself, Jaskier raised his ale to his face. “Should write that one down.” He muttered into his mug.

The ale hardly distracted from Jaskier’s melancholy. Usually, a jovial atmosphere was enough of a distraction, but tonight it proved naught. Perhaps it was a memory long since passed. Of a promise to attend when Jaskier won the Spring Novelist award. For he would win, had been awarded just the year prior, but the witcher had not been there. Another one of Jaskier’s faults, his wishful thinking and fantasizing, for the witcher had never promised. Merely grunted and Jaskier thought he had known him. Thought he knew that meant-

_ Her current is pulling you closer _

_ And charging the hot, humid night _

Thoughts didn’t matter now. Only the truth mattered, and the truth was Jaskier was lonely. Loving, bleeding heart be damned, he had thought he had Geralt’s  _ respect _ . Thought he had his friendship. A meaningful relationship where perhaps he had not been originally wanted but they both had grown on each other. Except Jaskier had grown like a weed. “Dandelion,” he spat out over the horizon before slugging back his ale.

The balcony had a lovely, lonely view. Breathtaking with no one to share it with. Jaskier could compose it for an audience, but what would it mean, in the end? Empty poetry with nothing more than face value beauty to it? Where was the depth of life when it could no longer be appreciated?

Jaskier chuckled at himself, setting aside his mug. Melodramatic, probably. Sad, actually. Pathetic, most definitely. It had been a year and still he could not move on. When he was being charitable to himself, he gave himself the excuse that it had been  _ decades _ he had given. Half his life. And yet nothing had ever been given in return. Well, the truth of the matter was that Geralt of Rivia had never asked for him. Jaskier supposed that was simple enough.

The balcony grew too cold, and Jaskier found himself emerging from the manor and making his way through the streets. Less debonair clothes and something less assuming. He no longer wished to travel in his fine silks. That was asking to be robbed, and no one feared the witcher who was not there. The joke was on them, honestly, in that the witcher had never been there at all.

_ The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool _

_ Better stay out of sight _

A tension in his shoulders as if he were being watched filled him in the streets. People passed him without acknowledging him, perhaps under the assumption of a drunkard’s imagination as Jaskier looked around himself. But there was nothing, there had always been nothing and Jaskier had always been alone. Been alone until his eyes caught sight of a golden gaze in the dark. Witcher’s eyes reflecting the light of the city.

Jaskier’s shoulders tensed further, his spine locking as he stood entranced by Geralt of Rivia’s form stalking closer. When finally the crowd seemed to realize that there was a stalking witcher roaming the streets they parted. Gulping, Jaskier inhaled sharply. “I hadn’t thought that I was that drunk.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, eyes tucked away before turning to pierce through Jaskier. “Jaskier,” the witcher whispers his name like it was  _ forbidden _ .

And perhaps it was. Jaskier had yet to decide if he wanted to deck the witcher - a worthless endeavor that would result in more pain on the bard’s part - or kiss him - an unwelcome gesture but Jaskier was desperate for contact. Jaskier clenched his fists against his sides.

“What are you doing here?” Jaskier raised his chin although his eyes felt to sink further into his skull, behind the bags underneath them. “I haven’t heard of any untoward creatures or magic happening, and you were never one for the finer entertainments of life.”

“You opened the festival,” Geralt spoke matter-of-factly. As if that should have any bearing on his presence here. Jaskier furrowed his brow but Geralt continued. “You… you always said you wanted to beat Valdo Marx in opening for the Spring Awakening.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in realization. “You knew I’d be here,” he whispered, more to himself than to Geralt even though the witcher could most assuredly hear him. “What is it? You can’t possibly be asking  _ me  _ for a favor, could you, Geralt of Rivia?”

Geralt gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply as he looked away. His eyes were like steel. “I need no favors, bard.”

Crossing his arms, barring himself from the vulnerability that seeped out of him like the sunset, Jaskier felt his chin quiver. “Well, shall we add that to the ever-growing list of things you  _ don’t need _ then, hmm?”

The witcher’s eyes flashed, turning to face Jaskier as his face tightened. It was comical, how constipated the witcher looked. Rather unbecoming and yet ever such a flattering picture did Geralt make. “Jaskier,” Geralt looked to him again, some of the stony facade chipping away on the Oxenfurt street. This time, the sound of the bard’s name attracting the crowd rather than causing them to cower with fear. A city of entertainment always loved a good drama.

“What, Geralt?” Jaskier cut him off, short. Aggravated that there was an audience when Jaskier felt like having anything but strange eyes upon him. Flustered to have Geralt’s attention after an entire year without it. “What could you possibly have to say to me?” He hissed. “Anything else of your Destiny that you’d like to blame me for?”

And perhaps that was low, given their history, given their audience, but Jaskier knew of no other way to fight.

“On the mountain,” Geralt finally spoke after a silence so thick that Jaskier was certain he had been buried in it. “I said things I shouldn’t have.” The witcher’s shoulders which once were rigid like ice cracked, breaking and falling into something more subdued. “They were untrue.”

Scoffing, Jaskier shook his head. “Untrue?” He looked over Geralt’s form. “Well, hardly likely, I should think. Rather accurate descriptions about how I have been nothing but a thorny rose at your side for all of my mortal life.”

Geralt growled, a low warning that halted Jaskier’s derisive comments. “I’m trying to apologize, Jaskier.” His face, like his shoulders, thawed from their glacier state. Although Jaskier had no idea why. He hadn’t thought himself crying, hadn’t thought Geralt’s gaze pitying.

Jaskier’s nostrils flared, hands clenched into fists at his side. Indignation engulfed him, despite knowing his heart had already forgiven Geralt before the witcher had even asked. “Well, that was the shittiest attempt at an apology that I’ve ever heard.” He scoffed, eyes flickering over the crowd as they slowly accumulated a larger audience, kept them enthralled.

If Jaskier thought they had an audience before, the gaze of the crowd was nothing in comparison to when Geralt dropped to his knees, hands taking Jaskier’s own. Something in those golden eyes had changed. Jaskier could see the year on his face, aging him more than a century ever could. “ _ Forgive me _ .” Geralt begged hoarsely. “Forgive me for what I’ve done, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, gaping at the unexpected gesture. Geralt’s face was open. As vulnerable as Jaskier heart had felt since he first saw the witcher approach. The timbre to Geralt’s voice was ground-shaking, shattering all that Jaskier thought he knew as the man he had always loved, always known, knelt before him. Geralt knelt before him as a man; not a witcher.

_ I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting _

_ If this is the path I must trudge _

“Get up,” Jaskier hissed, pulling helplessly at Geralt’s hands. Thankfully, the witcher took pity on him and followed, followed the pull of him to stand before him. “It’s not what you’ve done. It’s never been about what you  _ did _ , Geralt.” The bard whispered, voice hoarse with longing and hurt as his throat clenched around his confessions.

“Then what is it?” Geralt pleaded. “Tell me what it is so that I can fix it.” Those golden eyes, heavy and full, bore into Jaskier. While Geralt was not much taller than Jaskier, he had never felt smaller than when his eyes were upon him like this. Once before in Cintra and now in Oxenfurt.

Jaskier inhaled sharply, shaking his head and clenching his eyes. Even without watching, Jaskier could  _ feel _ that gaze. Feel it in his bones in a way that obscured vision could never hinder. “You never came after me,” he felt himself whisper, “you said all of those things and I thought you just needed space but you never came for me.”

Opening his eyes, Jaskier wished he had not. Geralt looked wounded and it left an ache deep in Jaskier’s soul. In the hole in his chest that had only ever been filled by the witcher. “I always follow you,” Jaskier continued, unable to stop now that it had been spoken, “I always come find you and I thought-” the tears finally burst, a dam flooding that he was unable to block. “I thought if you didn’t mean it, then you would have come after me.”

Golden eyes, soft and broken, steeled like a blade. A blade burning with that forge fire as Geralt clutched tightly onto Jaskier’s form. “I thought it was for the best - to let you go.” His voice was not but a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“ _ Sorry _ ,” Jaskier gave a wet laugh, “a year has passed and you’re here in the flesh and-” just enough ale to dull his senses but a crowd large enough to have him weary. “A  _ year _ , Geralt.”

“A year,” Geralt nodded in agreement. “And a long one at that.” He slowly, carefully, leaned to rest on Jaskier. His nose tucked into Jaskier’s cheek. “I  _ missed _ you, Jaskier.”

_ I welcome my sentence _

_ Give to you my penance _

“Missed me,” Jaskier’s words rattled from him, hands clutching at Geralt’s armored forearms. A breathy, wet laugh as he closed his eyes again. “Missed is not a strong enough word for how much I’ve longed to see you again, Geralt of Rivia.”

A grunt, something akin to a laugh but deeper, emerged from Geralt. “You are the wordsmith, Julian de Lettenhove. If you cannot find the word, then do not expect it of me.”

Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open, mouth slightly agape in something one could only call awe.”Well,” he licked his lips, watching as Geralt tracked the movement, “missing will have to do.”

“Mhm,” Geralt nodded again, inhaling sharply. Jaskier wondered if he smelt like ale, smelt like sweat from his performance. If Geralt had missed any of it; all of it. Gods, did Jaskier miss Geralt’s smell, though. Miss the leather and horse and  _ Geralt _ .

Surprisingly, even though Jaskier considered himself always performing, he had forgotten about their audience. Forgotten about the crowd that had stood as witness to this private moment made in public display. There was no dramatic clapping or cheers, but whispers. Whispers that made Jaskier clear his throat and draw away.

“Perhaps, my dear, we should finish this up somewhere more private?” He spoke quietly, knowing Geralt’s witcher hearing would allow him to be heard no matter the softness of his voice.

“We’ve not rented yet,” Geralt spoke gruffly, hands loosening on Jaskier’s body but never leaving. His touch burned as much - if not more - than his gaze.

Jaskier hummed. “Roach and you? No matter. I am a professor after all, no matter how honorific the position may seem.” He brambled, beginning to pull at Geralt again to make their way far from the imposing crowd. “We’ve bright, spacious rooms and fresh hay-”

“No,” Geralt grunted, huffing and looking away before drawing his gaze back. “I mean… it’s more than that.” He looked around to them, to the still interested crowd. “My Child Surprise,” the witcher whispered and Jaskier’s heart choked.

“You found her,” he sighed with relief. “Praise the gods, you found her.”

Geralt smiled fondly, small but prominent on the face of the witcher. “She found me.” He looked to Jaskier and then to their audience. His smile faded to a stiffened face. The face of the witcher, the White Wolf of the Valley of Plenty, bared at them. “I have more than myself to look for.”

And Jaskier knew that set to his shoulders. Knew that the title Jaskier had implicitly left out in his observations weighed him. Made him carry that concern for the Cintran Princess. “There will be no place safer for her than by your side and with my friends here in Oxenfurt.” Jaskier pulled at him, reassuring and gentle.

Again Geralt came with him, allowing him the pull. The witcher grunted and the audience moved so that they could leave. Leave the little stage in their play. Jaskier chuckled, thinking of the greater role he might have in Geralt’s ballad. He always knew that his Destiny was intertwined with the witcher’s, had forced himself too deeply into Geralt’s narrative.

That brought to mind Yennefer the sorceress. Geralt had not mentioned her, and Jaskier doubted she was with them, but he did not doubt that she was meant to be the harmony to Geralt’s song. Not that the witcher sang, but all living creatures’ hearts sang, in a way. Shaking himself, for it did not matter. Jaskier was not meant for True Love and other such ballads, but Geralt was here. Was here for him and that was enough.

_ Garroter, Jury, and Judge _

“Jaskier,” Geralt called to him, finally using that witcher strength to stop Jaskier’s pull on his arm. The witcher looked to him softly, gently caressing Jaskier’s cheek. The dark of one of the backroads, not being lit for the festival, consumed them and yet Jaskier could see the distant lights reflect off of Geralt’s eyes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked gently, every word from Geralt fixing his heart piece by piece. Shoving sharded glass into his chest in a semblance of something beating and whole. It ached beautifully.

The witcher sighed, humming something vaguely familiar as he brushed his nose against Jaskier’s face once again. “I’m selfish.” His voice sounded like gravel along a path. “I’m sorry.”

“Be selfish,” pleading, Jaskier leaned into his warm touch. “Please,  _ by the gods _ , please be selfish.” He had not meant to sound so desperate. So desperate for touch. He had meant this for Geralt, he could still make this for Geralt. “You are a good man, Geralt. Let yourself be happy.” Jaskier could do this. Could plead for Geralt’s happiness even if it would break his heart all the more. All the better.

What Jaskier was not expecting was to be kissed.

Kissed so gently it was transcendent. It left Jaskier’s body weak, aching and falling until Geralt’s hands cradled his waist. ‘Til the witcher held him aloft, held him close.

“Geralt,” Jaskier let out in a much-needed breath when they parted. “Oh, my White Wolf,” he whispered the confession as his lute-calloused fingers knotted along silver hair.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed out, open mouth hovering over Jaskier’s kiss-swollen lips. “ _ Yours _ .” Geralt growled and Jaskier felt himself grow lightheaded.

Jaskier gulped, head heavy and face flushed. “You had best not make promises like that to me when I am trying to usher you and your Child Surprise into lodgings for the evening.” He chuckled lightly. “I don’t imagine my flushed and wanting form is really going to persuade the Academy to give you rooms.”

“Mhm,” Geralt grunted, closing his lips but keeping pressed close. His fingers flexed on Jaskier’s waist. The witcher drew back, smirk larger than the fond smile as he looked over Jaskier’s reddened features. “I don’t think it’s a bad look.” His teeth glistened as his smirk widened. “It’s finally gotten you to shut up, hasn’t it?”

Familiar banter with familiar and yet unfamiliar touches was bright and wonderful. “And your true motives are revealed.” Jaskier retorted, the laugh rich and heavy like honeyed mead on his tongue.

Something like another grunt as Geralt looked to Jaskier. His eyes shifted again from playful to deep, that year-long ache shining in his gaze once more. “Jaskier, I really am-”

“I know,” Jaskier nodded, silencing the witcher with his calloused fingertip pressed to chapped lips. “So am I.”

Geralt furrowed his brow, shaking his head and making to argue again but Jaskier would not have it. The bard continued again, softly and never moving from Geralt’s frame. Never swaying.

“I am sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier confessed, “I was hurting and I… I held you accountable for my feelings. For not coming after me. And I’m sorry.”

“Hmm,” the witcher swallowed, that ache ebbing away into something new. Something that kept Jaskier from fleeing to the past, grounded in the present. Geralt sighed deeply and then inhaled just as sharply as he buried his nose into Jaskier’s hair. “Thank you.” He whispered.

“Always, my love,” Jaskier’s voice wavered, uncertain even as it spoke truth.

The witcher smiled, lips quirking subtle and brilliantly all at once. “Always, little lark.”

And perhaps Jaskier did have a place on this stage. A part to be played in Destiny. Not a stagehand who had forced himself into the narrative, but a leading role. Melitele bless it, perhaps even the love interest. Maybe not a leading lady or the hero but  _ dammit _ someone that mattered to Geralt. Mattered to Geralt alone and audience be damned. Jaskier smiled again, felt his heart begin to sing and take lead in the music of Geralt’s slow beating heart.

_ But the story is this _


End file.
